Strange Bedfellows
by anoushkala
Summary: Couple's Therapy has never been Dr. Jonathon Crane's area of expertise, but there are some people in Gotham City you simply do not refuse.


Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows.

He can't think of a more perfect quote to fit the two of them. Normally, he would disdain the poetic, but perhaps some of the clown's whimsical nature is staining him just a bit, as though even his aura leaves itself behind, like flecks of his grease paint.

He can't quite hear what they're saying to each other, but they're whispering furiously, each sporting a grin fit to tear both their faces, but that's already been done. There is a deep furrow in his cheek, and the line in hers is infinitely more delicate. It was well taken care of after the injury, though jagged when made. She is a perfect match to him, this thing that the world has never seen before, the scar only proof she is the _female_ of the species.

Oh, but the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

He was a scientist once, and was even now. After all, she was not born that way, no. She was created, altered, steadily but surely and it was impossible to know at this point exactly who had done the altering.

Like a good doctor, he had listened to both sides of the story with perfect impassivity, maintaining complete confidentiality. One would never know what the other said, just as Jonathon would never know whether either story was true. He had a penchant for lying, hers was far too chilling to be true. Or perhaps that was the very thing that proved her honesty. It wasn't possible to know. He considered the toxin for a moment, a small dose of it was better than torture for prying the truth out of someone, but he wondered what she could possibly be afraid of these days.

A steak knife, she had said, he had run it through wood several times, to prove a point. The knife was dull, he said, this one won't do. After that, he ran it through her face.

She laughs first, signaling a change in the encounter.

Very strange bedfellows, really. Necessity made, after all.

"It's difficult to call it, home-turf, Doc, it's a little more like… assumed in your case. See, I know all about Arkham and all and…. How far the great have fallen, I gotta say… even Arkham's better than this shit hole here, you've got a hell of a place going here, Jonny, can I call you Jonny? Anyway, let me get back to the point! Hah! I know, terrible pun, I've been working on it… My point is… see, this _is_ my home-turf, and I rather think it's time I start charging some… taxes… on my land." He had said.

"I've heard it said you don't care about the money…" Yes, yes, ever clinical, ever probing. The _other_ doesn't have any time to taunt him, though, he's shadowing at the backs of his eyes, intently focused, fascinated, as much as Crane is.

"Oh, you'd be so right about that… cheap stuff to me, bits of paper; insane really that people put so much faith in the stuff, and they call _me_ crazy. See, I would even say it is the root of all evil, but that doesn't explain us, now does it."

He throws out a hand in a flourish, and he looks so much cleaner than anything else in the room it makes Jonathon stop for a moment. He's never actually met the man, though he'd certainly seen him plastered over every single channel just a few short months ago (exhibitionistic, attention-seeking, his mind clicks off the observations, his pen will eventually finish the notes on paper), but he had heard the rumble through Gotham's underworld… they'd said the man was utterly cracked, dirty as a vagrant, and surely that had added to his terrifying persona.

Somehow, the man is far more appalling as he is now. The suit he has on at the moment, and they have varied these days, he has many now (and he could just imagine how distressed Bruce Wayne was when Page 6 replaced his pretty face with the Joker's, but one '_had_ to admire his tailoring' the article said), the suit is immaculate, perfectly pressed, a deep royal purple. Always the same colors, the green in the vest, a rich jewel tone. The shirt is silk, the suit linen, and Crane notes with detachment that it is indeed perfectly cut for his body. He has filled out these days, there's no other way to explain it: he had been a wavering wraith compared to the truly unstoppable force he is now. His hair is curled and shining, a deep rich green, and his makeup is perfectly applied.

Someone is caring _for_ him, perhaps not so much _about_ him.

She shoves him, and it's quite intentional. There is a small table behind him, one of the few pieces of furniture in the room, and it cuts his knees from beneath him, sending him backward at an angle that cracks his head into the wall. The blow would stun anyone, incapacitate most. It's good for about a five second space of time with the Joker. Harley uses it to her advantage as they crash to the floor, and smashes their faces together, Jonathon can't quite call it kissing. When their faces part, he is unsure whether the red staining their skin is lipstick or something more natural.

"I've no interest in money, Doc, but if the medieval analogies are working for ya, you can consider yourself… a knight… you're doing me a service, huh?"

It wasn't everyday the principal psychopath in the city came to you requesting 'couple's therapy'. It made Jonathon want to laugh, but for once it certainly seemed that the man _wasn't_ joking ('The Dame suggested it,' he said in a stage whisper. 'I don't like the idea, but I'm just so _crazy_ about her these days.')

His tongue slithers out, cleaning his mouth, and he thinks that it might be blood. They certainly collided hard enough to break skin against teeth, he thinks. He's grinning, but in the dim light it might just be the shadows in the lines of his face, and now he's cleaning her face as well. She giggles, and he joins her: they sound like a pair of schoolchildren snuck off together in the corner.

He lunges forward, catches her back against the metal footrail of the bed as he drives from knees to feet. Her breath comes out in a rushed cry, the metal tubing connecting perfectly with her kidneys: it would knock the breath out of anyone.

She has breath enough to moan as they tear into one another again, kisses that are as much teeth as lips and tongue as he forces her up onto the mattress, dragging both of their knees over the rails. This is not the apartment that Crane makes camp in (it's hard to call it living in this place), there are no linens on the bed, nothing to hide the years of stain and grime upon the mattress, neither pays any mind to it as they shed clothes like an old skin, becoming something much more frightening without the various accoutrement (what made them _fundamentally_ different from the normal human was in their _mind_, not in any mask they chose to wear).

Expensive material finds itself cast to the floor, among the other detritus, chunks of plaster and rat droppings. The face paint is absurd above so much bare skin, and the clown is leering at him, brandishing a knife so it catches the light of the single bare bulb in the room. The tiny blonde on the bed is squealing in obvious delight at being placed in a situation that the average citizen of Gotham looked upon with dread: facing this armed madman. She giggles, purrs, throws her head back and _laughs_ just a little for good measure, and turns her eyes back quickly to her 'Daddy' and he could probably talk himself blue in the face about _that_ little turn in their relationship.

She's shivering in nothing less than anticipation, eyes bright and lips curling in hunger, seems almost to arch toward the knife as it meets her skin, slicing a neat line into the side of her breast, and her blood joins countless others on the ill-used cover. He lowers himself to mouth at the descent, following it to its source, and he's sure he sees him pressing his tongue _into_ the wound. She groans and pulls at his shoulders impatiently and he follows enough to sink his teeth into an exposed nipple.

She hisses and drags him up to her, biting into _him_ in retribution, and the knife is lost between them. When their bodies part he can see that both her stomach and his fingers are bleeding, and her fingernails tear into his cheeks, laughing in his face as he snarls.

The blade rips into the mattress, embeds itself and lays in wait until its services are again needed: he's content now to use his hands, and he slaps her hard across the face, rocking her head, but she's catching his hand soon after, mouthing at his palm almost worshipfully. He shoves downward, forcing her head into the mattress, giving her other cheek an affectionate smack before he grabs one pigtail and drags her up to her knees.

She gives a quiet yelp, but there's a beatific smile spread across her face, and his tongue traces the mark he put in her flesh himself. She wears it as a badge of honor these days, displaying it proudly when he allows it: it is so often covered with makeup as he sends her out into the world as an unknown observer, and she treasures her work because she does it for _him_ but she so misses her real face when she must cover it, she confessed.

Their mouths find their way together again like the refrain of an ancient song, and he could almost imagine there is something like love, or gentleness, in that kiss, but he is too easily reminded of what they truly are to really entertain the notion. They confess their undying, and eternal love upon the stage of their city, but behind the switchblade smiles there is nothing, only coldness, and he knows it is only a matter of time before one or the other will be dead by their lover's hand.

He has never been a gambling man: he won't take odds on which exactly it will be.

"I wouldn't call it love," she'd said brightly, twirling a string of blonde hair around a finger. "I hate him with every fiber of my being… look what he did to me." She's touching the scar with the tip of her tongue, face suddenly so serious. "I suppose that begs the question of why I stay… all it really comes down to… I'm content to watch the world suffer at his hands the way I once did. There's no better view of the circus than from center ring, Doctor Crane."

He's twisting her head round with his hand wound into her hair, forcing her body to follow, and he presses her bruising cheek into the wall as his hand disappears in front of her. She writhes uncontrollably, caught between pushing toward his hand, arching back against him, and he gives a satisfied chuckle as his hand comes back into view, fingertips glistening, and she sucks them hungrily into her mouth, licking them clean, the order apparently innately understood. The other hand glides into the shadows between them, and he presses her into the wall with all of his weight, and Jonathon knows that in a moment there won't be a single thing separating their bodies but skin.

She screams ecstatically in that moment, hips undulating against his like a snake, head thrown back in abandon. He gives a purr of his own, content to allow her to do the work, only leaning into it hard, and the ancient drywall he is forcing her into gives an alarming groan.

He's whispering again, it's still so hard to hear, and Jonathon leans forward in an attempt to catch a few of the words: the sort of things he might whisper to his victims before he introduces his 'friends' to their body. She whimpers and shakes and it isn't from fear. He forces her knees farther apart with his legs, and his hips finally move, sharp snaps that cause a stumble in her rhythm, a disappointed whine escaping her mouth. Her lips twist into a pout, scar slanting down, and she peers over her shoulder at him, giving a helpless whimper as she tilts her hips back, opening herself fully to him, giving in briefly to his usurpation of power.

A hand, looking very bare without its usual glove, snatches for the knife in the mattress, and then the blade is at her throat, slicing along it: no pressure behind it, it still raises a fine line of blood, and she gives a shout, staying carefully still even as his pace quickens, the force of his thrusts threatening to rock her body.

It is an amazing show of self-control between two individuals so supposedly lacking in it.

He moans, a sound from somewhere much deeper than his throat, and her eyes widen and roll in her head, whole body shuddering at the sound of it. Her head falls back against his shoulder, and he mouths briefly at the skin of hers, before he again places his teeth within her flesh. She howls, and her body again joins the dance, no longer satisfied with simply being used. She presses back into him, tries to force him away but does not succeed: she cracks their heads together until he lets go of her with a snarl, every inch the rabid dog.

Her back bends, knees quickly pulling up, legs unfolding against the wall as she kicks backward and manages to upset his balance. He shifts to keep from ending up in the floor, and the headboard crashes into the wall as he connects with it, loosens his hold enough for her to squirm away, thin knees digging hard into _sensitive_ flesh, but it doesn't register on his face.

Most of the makeup is gone, transferred to the wall, the mattress, her skin, but his jaw is still bright red, and her tongue finds it again as she finishes her desperate scramble, sitting astride his hips and grasping, carefully lowering herself again.

His growl of annoyance changes somehow, imperceptibly pleased, and they struggle for the knife: even with all the carefully built muscle swathing her petite form, she is no match for his strength, and he thinks when she finally pries the blade from his hands, it as much because he allowed it, as because she snatched it away. The blade slashes across his stomach, reopening the scarred crossbar of an H that is carved into the skin there ('he beat me black and blue for that one, I pissed blood for a week, but he's mine now, Doctor, all mine.')

He's grinning now though, and acceptance of a state is the first step to healing, but all the King's _psychiatrists_ couldn't put these two back together (the Commissioner's either, he thinks), and she reopens the wound with movements that are precise, almost delicate. The blood flows and she presses their fronts together, hips still driving onward in a far more mundane search for a conclusion in this encounter. The pattern is transferred to her pale skin, and she presses the knife back into his hand, throwing her head back and screaming when he obliges her: he slices deep into the J between her breasts, over the heart; and the wound will probably never heal, the layers and layers of scar tissue already prove his unwillingness to allow it.

The mattress creaks, the bed frame protests at so much use, the pair ignores it and her hips pound harder, his hand sliding between them, palm splayed over her pubis, thumb working between her legs, and he cackles and croons, listening to her wails.

"Now, there's my good little girl, Daddy's favorite, do you know that?"

She laughs, a sound caught in her throat, behind the teeth that are bared in what could be a smile or a snarl. He looks infinitely pleased with himself, and his eyelids flutter within their pools of dark, slipping closed, and it is a remarkable release for a man who _never_ relinquishes his control. He hears the sound of metal, the knife, clattering on the floor, and they tear at each other with hands instead, nails digging and furrowing through flesh, his grip leaves bruises behind immediately, and he thinks the mattress might give way soon beneath the very power of their thrusts.

They force their faces together, sharing their breath in a dizzying, asphyxiated climb to the summit, and he pins her against him as his lips twist back from his teeth, and the room is silent beyond her encouraging moans, and Jonathon can see clearly the shudder that rips through his form. She screams loud enough for the both of them, hips rocking slightly within the cage of his hands, and he holds her still as he empties within her, sunk as deeply as he can go. She laughs in what sounds like triumph, his hands reach up to find her breasts, clenching too tightly to be called a caress, and he carves at the scar above her heart now with carefully manicured fingernails and it's enough, just what she needed it seems, because she thrashes atop him, scream echoing through the building itself.

She collapses onto him, and suddenly he shoves hard, sending her sprawling onto the floor in a fit of giggles, despite the fact that she lands upon shards of wood, nails, bits of concrete. She laughs again, high-pitched as a child, and searches through the discarded articles to find her own clothing. He lounges on the filthy mattress, regal, overlooking his empire of half-demolished walls and ceiling, piles of plaster dust, and watches her dress with what could be called approval filling those ghostly features. She finishes, sliding her belts and straps through the final buckles, and leaps to her feet, a twinge of pain crossing her features before one of bliss, wiggling her hips in the leather to savor the sensation. She stands before him expectantly, hands folded together almost demurely, and he nods finally, swinging his long legs over the edge of the mattress.

Jonathon watches Ms. Quinn dress the Joker, a look of unhinged reverence spread across her features, and her hands work swiftly, with the skill of one whose task is oft-repeated. Now his tools have returned, though his face looks conspicuously bare beneath the half-gone makeup.

"So, Doc, tell me, what's your… _diagnosis_ this time?"

"Aren't we just perfect for each other?" The little harlequin croons, and he laughs softly, swinging an arm over her thin shoulders, dragging her in close as her fingers knot in his lapels.

"You don't look so certain, Jonny…" That tongue darts out like a snake, licking lips that are now pink and full, and he arches a blackened eyebrow, ruined mouth spreading into a beautiful smile. "Maybe you'd like to seek a second opinion?"


End file.
